


cerebral thunder (blink slow: one, or two?)

by princepixel



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Coming of Age, Depression, Dermatillomania, Disordered Eating, Eventual Happy Ending, Growing Up, Healing, Kim Jungwoo & Kim Doyoung, Kim Jungwoo & Qian Kun - Freeform, Mental Health Issues, OCD, Self-Harm, Self-Reflection, Sleep Deprivation, Suicide, jungwoo centric, jungwoo is sad but he learns and he grows and things are better, the luwoo is minor, vent fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-27
Updated: 2018-05-27
Packaged: 2019-05-14 08:14:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14765876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/princepixel/pseuds/princepixel
Summary: when it feels like the whole world is against you, sometimes the only thing left to do is hold your own hand and keep living in spite of everything else. jungwoo is just living for the hell of it for right now, searching for his reason to hang on.forward.or: jungwoo reflects on his mental health journey as he heals.





	cerebral thunder (blink slow: one, or two?)

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this in the last two hours and if i dont post it now i'll never have the courage to post it
> 
>  
> 
> PLEASE read the tags carefully before reading, i dont want anyone to get hurt. love you guys <3
> 
> not edited shrugs

it's hard, feeling as if the world is against you.

 

everything in life seems to be going wrong; you don't make much of an impression on the world, you're just sort of there. you have friends, but you don't think they like you very much. you have family, but you fight with them all the time. you go day to day just thinking about going back to sleep. you are drifting.

 

jungwoo is drifting.

 

 

 

**_begin._ **

 

 

 

it starts in seventh grade.

 

jungwoo has always been an anxious child, pulling at his skin and suffering long nights with anxiety attacks as a close friend. to this day he has his clock turned around because seeing the time always sends him into an anxiety attack.

 

kids tend to eat weird things, like bugs or dirt or whatever. jungwoo thinks that as a kid he must have swallowed a whole lot of bugs, because they're still down there, deep in his stomach, buzzing and squirming and cutting up his innards.

 

he goes through waves, where things, years, will be really great and then really, _really_ terrible.

 

it's during one of the drops.

 

seventh grade is widely accepted to be the shittiest year of pretty much everyone's life, and jungwoo is no different. everything gets worse-- the anxiety, the dermatillomania, the OCD, and oh, the _depression_.

 

jungwoo scratches at his hand.

 

everything feels off, feels as if it’s the moment before impact. there's that horrible twisting in his gut again, telling him things are very wrong, telling him things are about to explode.

 

jungwoo scratches a little harder.

 

he falls asleep in class all the time, a mess of gangly limbs and warring emotions and none of his friends ask how he is, no one wonders if he's okay or invites him out or offers their support. jungwoo is an astronaut with his tether cut out, and now he's forced to watch his happy crewmates fly on without him as he floats out of reach.

 

just a little too far, forever on his tiptoes, fingertips straining for that bit of happiness on the top shelf. he can't quite reach it.

 

being awake is so much effort.

 

jungwoo breaks the skin.

 

being alive is so much effort.

 

 

 

**_forward._ **

 

 

 

 

jungwoo has regular meltdowns. he is lost, out of touch and cowering within his own mind. each corner he turns seems to have a new monster peering back at him with hungry eyes. his vision is wavering, playing tricks on him. his brain is conspiring against him.

 

jungwoo begs for a therapist.

 

she is odd. he doesn't feel comfortable talking to her. he doesn't feel comfortable talking at all. his mother sits in on his sessions.

 

after one meltdown, his mother laments about being a failure of a parent.

 

 _if you say you're a failure of a parent_ , he thinks, _then what does that make me?_

 

the therapist's office is in the basement of her house. the room reeks of burning sandalwood. it is dark. some plants line the walls, but they do nothing to brighten up the room. the chairs spin, around and around. his mind spins, around and around.

 

she is middle aged, platinum blonde hair sweeping just past her shoulders. the fireplace is always going. jungwoo hates the smell of smoke. he feels like he's suffocating.

 

jungwoo's therapist tells him he doesn't seem to really need a therapist. compared to the other kids she's worked with, he's apparently, "quite well off."

 

he stops going to therapy after two months. it is seventh grade. jungwoo feels like he's suffocating.

 

 

 

**_forward._ **

 

 

 

 

life is comprised of peaks and valleys. the sour is what makes the sweet so sweet, they say. the lows are there to balance the highs, they say.

 

jungwoo thinks they're full of shit.

 

it always seems to be one of the valleys.

 

 

 

**_forward._ **

 

 

 

jungwoo stares at himself in the mirror. it is eighth grade. he stares, and stares, and stares, hands roaming his face and pulling the gaunt skin this way and that.

 

the sloped nose-- that's jungwoo.

 

the swooping hair-- that's jungwoo.

 

the high cheekbones-- that's jungwoo.

 

the worry lines creasing the forehead-- that's jungwoo.

 

the deep purple eyebags bruising the eyes-- that's...jungwoo...

 

the bony fingers running through the hair-- that's jungwoo?

 

the blank expression-- that's-- wait--

 

the anguished look in the eyes-- that's not-- no--

 

jungwoo doesn't recognize the boy in the mirror.

 

 

 

 

**_forward._ **

 

 

 

 

("jungwoo, aren't you excited to go to high school? you're growing up!"

 

jungwoo hates change. he hates growing up. he can't seem to figure out where the time goes.

 

he spends all his time hunting for the grains of sand missing from the hourglass, frantically trying to refill it, not noticing the leaking hole in the back. there are some things you just can't get back.

 

youth is one of them.

 

 _happiness_ , jungwoo thinks sullenly, _is another_.)

 

 

 

 

**_forward._ **

 

 

 

 

"does anyone have any questions?" the teacher asks, wandering around the room. he quirks an eyebrow at the class's silence.

 

jungwoo doesn't sleep anymore.

 

"really? all of you understand mean value theorem, just like that?"

 

jungwoo sinks down in his chair. to be honest, he has no idea what's going on. it's ninth grade. he's sleeping through all his classes.

 

jungwoo sleeps too much now.

 

he puts his hand up, but the teacher has turned around.

 

jungwoo is too late.

 

"alright, well. on to the next lesson. now that we've discussed that, we can move on to applied optimization."

 

jungwoo shamefully puts his hand down. he can't disrupt the lesson now to ask questions. plus, what if the other students think that he is lacking? that he can't do it?

 

jungwoo hates being a bother.

 

the teacher pulls him over at the end of class. heart sinking, lungs filling up with water, drowning out his organs, jungwoo packs his things up slow as could be and dawdles going out the door.

 

"are you okay, jungwoo? you seemed a little...distracted today."

 

 _how can i say i'm drowning when it seems everyone else is swimming just fine?_ jungwoo wants to ask.

 

"i'm all right. i'm just a little tired, is all." is what he says.

 

his organs are still swimming but the water feels more like acid now, burning away the walls of his heart and sizzling between his ribs.

 

_why can't i explain to people that i'm struggling?_

 

jungwoo hates being a bother.

 

 

 

**_forward._ **

 

 

 

 

_it's been a long time, and i just can't handle this. i've hung on for three whole years now, i think that's pretty good._

 

jungwoo is in ninth grade. he writes his first suicide letter.

 

_save as draft?_

 

it's not time, yet. probably. jungwoo doesn't really know what he's waiting for.

 

_click._

 

it may come in handy for the future.

 

jungwoo thinks about how if he ever was going to do...something, he would need to have a letter first.

 

_are you sure you want to cancel without saving?_

 

maybe writing the letter, thinking through his life and what he wants as last words, before he does something rash will make him stop and reconsider.

 

_saved._

 

maybe not.

 

 

 

**_forward._ **

 

 

 

 

"hey, man. are you good?" kun looks at him sideways.

 

"yeah, why?"

 

"you just looked. like. really sad there for a minute, is all."

 

jungwoo thinks about how exhausted kun looks. the bags dragging down kun's face look much worse than jungwoo's must look. the droop of his shoulders must be much worse than jungwoo's. the backpack on his back must be much heavier than jungwoo's. the weight on his mind must be much worse than jungwoo's.

 

jungwoo, for a brief, foolish minute, considers it. considers spilling out his life story to kun, confessing everything from the bad friendships to his fear of making connections and trusting people and how difficult it is to open up when it seems like someone has switched his toothpaste for superglue, how sometimes he feels like a single weed growing through the cracks of an abandoned parking lot, how he feels like the real jungwoo deserted his post a while ago and now he's a robot trying to fill the empty space, but he isn't doing a very convincing job of it.

 

how do you pretend to be someone you don't know?

 

jungwoo opens his mouth.

 

kun has enough on his plate to deal with. he doesn't need jungwoo's shit to sort out as well. it doesn't matter that kun comes to him every other day to vent about his stressors, that's what jungwoo is best at. he comforts others, not the other way around. without that, they really don't have a reason to keep him around.

 

"....just tired."

 

jungwoo _really_ hates being a bother.

 

 

 

**_forward._ **

 

 

 

jungwoo works hard, harder than ever even as he feels his waterlogged organs begin to fail. the water is beginning to soak into his brain.

 

he receives a letter.

 

jungwoo, though depressed and distant, is really stubborn and will settle for nothing less than perfection. part of his sadness is born out of the inability to be perfect. he turns in every assignment, goes for extra help where he thinks it's beneficial. his mind is at war but his body goes through the motions, completely on autopilot. his body is google completing his sentences, feet carrying him to the library after school and soaking up information even while most of his brain has retreated, withdrawing somewhere deep within himself. his grades do not slip so no one has a reason to be alarmed. jungwoo watches himself as if he is standing a mile away.

 

he opens the letter. it is ninth grade. he is third in the class.

 

the water recedes a tiny bit.

 

**_forward._ **

 

jungwoo picks a little too much in class one day. he shows up to lunch with his index finger of his left hand gushing blood. he doesn't think it's that severe, honestly. he reaches for a bandaid, because he doesn't go anywhere without one, but a friend catches him first.

 

"whoa, that looks really bad."

 

"you think?" jungwoo doesn't think it's nearly as bad as the time blood started dripping off his thumb, narrowly missing the carpet in english class.

 

jungwoo doesn't know how to say that he's had worse.

 

"what did you do?"

 

jungwoo could tell him.

 

"paper cut."

 

or not.

 

"ah. that sucks."

 

and that is that.

 

 

 

**_forward._ **

 

 

 

jungwoo is a picky eater. most foods make his stomach turn and roil. the bugs don't like many types of foods. he looks at the peanut butter and jelly sandwich packed in his lunch bag for the eighth year in a row. he can't do it. he throws it away that day, and the next, and the next.

 

at first he gets hungry, so he starts bringing carrots and dip. he can handle that.

 

soon, he throws those away, too.

 

soon, he is no longer hungry.

 

it is tenth grade. jungwoo is a picky eater-- that's why he throws away all his food when no one is looking. that's why he is never hungry. that's why he skips breakfast and lunch, and dinner when he can.

 

jungwoo is a picky eater.

 

 

 

**_forward._ **

 

 

 

 

jungwoo is at a friend’s birthday party. it is tenth grade. they are playing never have i ever.

 

“never have i ever been out of the country.” says jungwoo. it is a partial truth. his body has never left, but his mind has gone far, far away.

 

some of his friends clap and (presumably) put a finger down. they are playing in the pitch black, to make things interesting.

 

“never have i ever...self harmed.”

 

the room holds its breath.

 

jungwoo is about to bring his hands together when he is stopped by a voice saying, “that’s a little too personal.”

 

at the same time, claps echo in the room.

 

it’s a strange place to source comfort from, but jungwoo does, nonetheless.

 

it is tenth grade. jungwoo is sad. jungwoo is not the only sad tenth grader on the earth.

 

 

 

 

**_forward._ **

 

 

 

 

"jungwoo, why are you crying?" his mom asks.

 

"i- i'm sad." jungwoo chokes out, fingers twisting in the hem of his shirt. "actually, i'm-- i'm kind of sad a lot lately. all the time. and i don't have a lot of energy. i don't feel good."

 

his mom tilts her head. "you don't eat well, you should exercise more."

 

jungwoo wilts.

 

"and how can you say you're sad all the time? i saw you smile last week when you went to the movies with your friend."

 

that's not the point, but it doesn't matter. no arrangement of words can convey what it's like to be depressed to someone who's never been through it.

 

 _she didn't understand. i didn't know how to make her understand, so i stopped trying._ jungwoo writes.

 

it is tenth grade. there is a new student climbing the ranks. jungwoo is fourth in the class. jungwoo wants to die.

 

 

 

 

**_forward._ **

 

 

 

 

jungwoo turns on the tv. the first thing he sees is a charming little girl, playing the violin beautifully. the adults in the background coo at her adoringly, asking her how old she is. proudly, she throws up five pudgy fingers.

 

jungwoo spares the instrument in the corner of his room a glance. he used to be a prodigy. now he is nothing. jungwoo is a logarithmic function when everyone else is linear. he strikes gold and rises to the top sharply, but he levels off. he stops growing. he peers into the rearview mirror and can see everyone catching up, but he can't move. he's stranded, out of gas. he watches everyone pass him, trample him into the dirt. he is old news. he is forgotten. he is not special anymore.

 

jungwoo doesn't want to grow up.

 

he doesn't want to live much at all.

 

 

 

**_forward._ **

 

 

 

 

it is the week before midterms and everything jungwoo touches becomes waterlogged. his fingers are pruning. his belongings smell like chlorine. jungwoo just wants to get out of the pool already. he is sick of treading water. it feels just like swimming, but he isn't going anywhere.

 

he is stationary, a still image in an ever-changing whirlwind of motion.

 

it's a simple fight.

 

jungwoo wants to shower first because he is so, so tired. he knows he won't sleep. he knows he sleeps too much and entirely at the wrong time. he just wants to sleep, but he can't break routine.

 

his sister wants to shower, too. they are both stubborn. jungwoo's whole family gets involved. they think he is selfish. they don't understand that he is tired.

 

they don't understand much of anything at all, honestly.

 

january is a bad month.

 

he doesn't know why it's been particularly difficult. people talk about seasonal depressive disorder, how people get depressed when the days are short and the nights are long, when the sun goes on hiatus and the temperature dips below freezing.

 

normally, this is when jungwoo thrives. he is a creature of the night, just another dark figure prowling in the dark. for him, the warm weather is the worst. it's when the world starts to speed up again. everything is bright and blinding and overwhelming and he can't keep up-- he is drowning, he is drowning. summer is when all the pools open. summer is when all of his end of the school year goodbyes sound final, because they very well could be. summer is when jungwoo could drown and no one would notice for months. when it's spring everyone pulls themselves together from the blues of winter and moves on. jungwoo is stuck ankle deep in the warming mud, watching them all cross the finish line when he can't even put one foot in front of the other.

 

no one turns back to see that he is still sinking.

 

it is tenth grade. january is a bad month. he doesn't know why.

 

his family hates him. he knows it. he could swallow the whole medicine cabinet at midnight and no one would find him for hours. it would be easy.

 

jungwoo goes up to the attic and bangs at his thighs, one, two.

 

his vision blurs. the eye doctor switches the films over his eyes. one, or two?

 

jungwoo still can't see.

 

the film switches again.

 

jungwoo hates change.

 

one, or two?

 

jungwoo punches his thighs again, one, two.

 

one, or two?

 

he goes to bed with slightly purple legs.

 

he takes liquid advil. jungwoo can't take pills.

 

 

 

 

_**forward.** _

 

 

 

 

jungwoo is sobbing silently, chest heaving and drawing in too much air, not enough air, he can't breathe but he's breathing too much. that is a problem.

 

he's breathing. that is a problem.

 

he's half-hysterical, but also oddly calm. he knows what he's doing.

 

something he's never admitted is how he memorized the location of all the painkillers in the house, from the naproxen he was prescribed for a bad ear infection (middle shelf, next to the advil) to the medicine his mom takes for her headaches (kitchen cabinet, top shelf, hidden behind the glasses they don't use). it's comforting in the same way that it's comforting to know where the exits are when you enter a movie theater. the lights on the stairs illuminate a path to the nearest exit in case of an emergency.

 

this is an emergency, and the glowing lights are leading him to the bathroom cabinet.

 

he's crying, but he feels nothing. the world is foggy. he grabs the bottle, rolls it in his hands once, twice.

 

one, or two?

 

he can't see.

 

on the good days, he simply handles the bottle and revels in the fact that he has an escape hatch if he ever needs it. on the good days he puts the bottle back in the box.

 

this is not a good day.

 

pacing and pacing, jungwoo rolls the bottle. he sobs into his hand. his entire family is asleep. no one would find him until morning.

 

he turns, and shakes the bottle out onto a long stretch of toilet paper. he lines them up neatly, one by one. he counts them, and recounts them. nineteen.

 

one, or two?

 

or nineteen?

 

jungwoo stares at himself. he doesn't recognize the boy in the mirror. the boy in the mirror is putting a pill to his lips.

 

jungwoo does the same. the pill barely touches his lip, when he remembers a key fact.

 

jungwoo cannot take pills. he's scared of choking.

 

he's scared of choking.

 

 _why am i scared of choking to death on this pill when dying is what i'm trying to do?_  

 

maybe he just wants the easy, painless way out. maybe he feels like he's been choking for a long time and he just wants to sleep and not wake up.

 

maybe he doesn't really want to die.

 

jungwoo puts the pill down. the boy in the mirror puts his down, too.

 

he thinks the boy’s name might be jungwoo.

 

 

 

 

_**forward.** _

 

 

 

 

the night jungwoo almost kills himself, he calls lucas.

 

"can you just. talk to me? for a while? it doesn't have to be about anything in particular."

 

lucas starts rambling to him about his dumb naruto pillow. the rustling on the other end of the line clearly indicates that lucas is wandering around his room, picking up random items and describing them, explaining their backstory and what he thinks about them.

 

jungwoo stops crying. lucas fills the air nicely. he's lucky to have the friends he has.

 

later, he confesses a tiny bit about his mental health history to lucas, who listens attentively.

 

lucas is a good friend.

 

jungwoo doesn’t tell anyone about his little incident.

 

 

 

 

**_forward._ **

 

 

 

 

lucas likes him. well, lucas likes a lot of people.

 

jungwoo isn't stable enough to figure out his own feelings, can barely keep himself above water, let alone handle be in a relationship.

 

lucas moves on within a few weeks.

 

jungwoo is slow to realize he has a crush on lucas.

 

once again, jungwoo is left in the dust. mud sticks between his feathers. everyone else soars above him on beautiful wings.

 

he knows a relationship isn’t what he needs at the moment, but he can’t help but regret not chasing those damned grains of sand as they slipped through his fingers once again.

 

it takes him over a year to settle into being best friends with lucas. it's okay. they still cuddle and hold hands, lucas still calls him when jungwoo needs him.

 

it's enough.

 

jungwoo can be happy with this.

 

 

 

 

**_forward._ **

 

 

 

jungwoo tears up his hand badly, dozens of raw, red scrapes lining the back of his hand. he knows he shouldn't do it, but he does. it helps calm him down from the anxiety attacks. he can't feel it. weakly, he slaps a band aid over it as if that will cover anything.

 

he can't feel much of anything, to be honest.

 

(he considers, once, smashing on old pencil sharpener. jungwoo thinks about his phobia of needles and decides he doesn’t really like pain all _that_ much.)

 

he takes off the bandaid before he showers and forgets to put it back on.

 

sometimes depression isn't sadness. sometimes it is just nothingness. sometimes it is insomnia at night and sleeping all day when you get home. sometimes it is apathy, staring at the ceiling for hours feeling nothing for no one and nothing. sometimes it is an empty word document, a file wiped clean.

 

he helps his father move the furniture.

 

"what happened to your hand?"

 

jungwoo squirms.

 

"bug bite."

 

it's too cold out for mosquitos. there is no visible bite. his father doesn't call him out on it.

 

he continues to scratch at his hand, even when he isn’t having an anxiety attack.

 

depression is an odd beast.

 

 

 

 

**_forward._ **

 

 

 

 

his mom reorganizes the bathroom three months later. she throws out the old pills.

 

jungwoo panics. his safety net-- gone. now he has to live, and living is an intimidating prospect.

 

jungwoo thinks about how he's going for his driver's license soon. he thinks about how he doesn't want to get it because once he can drive by himself he can drive to the pharmacy and buy all the pills he wants and no one will ever know.

 

jungwoo lies on the ground. earlier, researching for a project, he saw an article about current suicide rates.

 

he lifts a hand to block out the light.

 

"i don't want to be just another statistic." he mumbles, staring at the back of his hand. it's covered in scratches, but they're healing. they don't leave scars.

 

he gets his driver's license. he doesn't go to the pharmacy.

 

 

 

 

**_forward._ **

 

 

 

it is the end of tenth grade. everything goes to hell.

 

jungwoo has never seen the whole school this quiet. sadness bleeds into the principal's voice on the morning announcements. he is only a sophomore in a class of juniors and seniors. he doesn't know what's going on. the girls across him have red eyes and runny noses. he thinks it is the cold.

 

it isn't the cold.

 

a junior in jungwoo's psychology class has killed himself. it is sudden. it is crushing.

 

it feels as if there is a heavy blanket smothering the school. jungwoo can't breathe. he's always been a sympathetic crier. the atmosphere is unbearable.

 

every single one of jungwoo's teachers discuss the incident, inviting students to share their worries. for the first time, jungwoo sees what the consequences of his actions would have been like. he sees how so many more people were affected than he would've thought. he thinks about himself and how badly he is hurting for a sad boy he barely knew.

 

jungwoo's perspective shifts. not by much, just slightly to the left.

 

he wants to live. it may not last forever, but right now, jungwoo wants to live.

 

jungwoo eyes the stack of homework in front of him.

 

if he’s going live, be in this thing for the long run, he’s going to fucking do it right.

 

 

 

 

**_forward._ **

 

 

 

 

it is the middle of july. jungwoo has picked so badly at the heel of his foot that he can't walk. he goes to the beach but doesn't swim. he isn't comfortable with himself.

 

jungwoo begins to talk to people online. it is the best decision he has made yet.

 

summer passes in a haze.

 

 

 

 

**_forward._ **

 

 

 

 

"hey, want to come get lunch with me?" it is the first day of eleventh grade.

 

jungwoo shrugs. he has nothing better to do.

 

"they have really good bagels in the snack shack." says doyoung, to fill the silence. jungwoo hums. they keep walking.

 

"a french toast bagel, please, and a small smoothie." doyoung orders smoothly.

 

jungwoo watches the lunch lady swiftly prepare the meal. he thinks about his empty lunchbox. he thinks about the weak attempt he made at starving himself throughout last year. slow acting suicide. it doesn't work. he thinks about the swell of his stomach. he thinks about getting better.

 

the lunch lady looks at him expectantly as doyoung moves out of the way of the line.

 

"same for me, please." is out of jungwoo's mouth before he realizes what he's saying. seconds later, he is walking back with doyoung with a tray piled up high. minutes later, he is eating the food on his plate for the first time in a year and a half.

 

it's good.

 

jungwoo can't finish it all, but that's okay.

 

the next day, he goes back and orders the same thing. and the next. and the next. and the next.

 

jungwoo likes routines.

 

after a month, jungwoo can finish the whole thing.

 

after three months, his appetite returns to near normal.

 

after five months, the lunch lady begins to simply greet him with a warm smile and give him his food, not bothering to ask for his order.

 

"i like trying to memorize people's orders," she tells him once, "and you're a familiar face."

 

he thanks her like always.

 

it is eleventh grade. lunch is okay.

 

 

 

 

**_forward._ **

 

 

 

 

all of jungwoo's friends go into a program he isn't in. he doesn't see them much. he is edged out of the group chat.

 

out of sight, out of mind.

 

jungwoo overloads himself with AP classes. it's okay. being busy is good for him.

 

he finds out one of his best friends, someone he thought he could open up to, hates him. has hated him for months. it’s because of the depression. it's okay. cutting ties is for the best, probably.

 

jungwoo had been developing a crush on him. it's okay.

 

he nurses a broken heart for a year and a half. it will be okay. someday. it will stop hurting. someday.

 

jungwoo may be shy, but he is generally well liked and it isn't hard to be friendly enough with people in his classes, enough to get by. he starts to make new friends. they aren't the closest of friends yet, but it's something.

 

he doesn't feel as silly speaking up in class anymore. there’s something intoxicating about being an upperclassman. drunk on status, jungwoo walks through the halls with music blasting but eyes no longer glued to his feet. he no longer cowers. his voice steadies. things are looking up.

 

for the first time, he wants to get better.

 

it is the end of junior year. jungwoo opens the letter. he is second in the class.

 

 

 

_**forward.** _

 

 

 

 

it is senior year and jungwoo is disoriented. he has to look at colleges now.

 

jungwoo wasn't supposed to live past his fourteenth birthday. he never planned for the future because he never expected to get there.

 

jungwoo doesn't hang out with friends much, but he tags along with his brother and his friends often. with them, he can breathe easy. they start traveling to a mountain where you can sit on the rocks and look out over the city below. it is beautiful. it is calming. they go up there at night when the air is crisp and jungwoo can think clearly.

 

it is four am. jungwoo sneaks out of the house to watch the meteor shower. he lays in the middle of the road.

 

one, or two?

 

jungwoo's vision is clearing up.

 

he goes to homecoming. he goes to a football game. he goes to his brother's swim meets. he goes to concerts. he takes five AP classes and aces them all. he teaches kids with disabilities to play instruments. he establishes himself as a safe person to talk to for the younger kids in his orchestra. he is the section leader for the third year in a row.

 

they all call him mom.

 

he likes taking care of other people. it's more than just getting to feel helpful; he's past the days of believing that being someone's rock, their support beam, is all he's good for. he used to think that if he spoke to others about his problems, they wouldn't vent to him anymore, they wouldn't need him anymore.

 

jungwoo is past that. he just wants to make sure none of them suffer like he did, believing he was alone for so, so long.

 

jungwoo still shuts himself up in his room for days, weeks, months. he still retreats far far within himself at times, sleeps whole days away, but it's progress.

 

baby steps.

 

he is okay. he is okay. things aren't perfect. that is okay. he will be okay.

 

jungwoo gets a letter.

 

he sleeps less and less. when he does, it's plagued by nightmares and horrifying sleep paralysis. it seems that if jungwoo's mind can't torture him while he's awake, it will settle for making his dreaming life hell. jungwoo begins to keep a dream journal. it doesn't help much, but it sure is interesting to see what his brain cooks up.

 

(one time, during sleep paralysis, he hallucinates that he's checking the notes section on his phone to write down a dream, but there's a note already written for him. it simply tells him to die. jungwoo wakes up and writes down the dream. he scratches out that last part. no one needs to know.)

 

being awake is so much effort.

 

jungwoo goes for regular trips to ihop. he gets into dance as a way of expressing himself. he learns to stop pushing things away.

 

being awake is worth the effort.

 

jungwoo opens the letter. he gets in to his dream college. three years ago, starting high school, he didn't think he would live to even tour a college campus.

 

jungwoo gets another letter. the end of the year is approaching. exams were difficult, but he handles stress differently now.

 

it takes a lot of lessons to get where he is. he learns how to let people go. he learns that people drift and it's okay. he learns to trust himself, and others. he learns to work hard for what he wants. he learns to be his own support system if he feels like he has no one, but to not be afraid to rely on those around him. he writes cards for everyone at the end of the year because he refuses to leave any loose ends. jungwoo learns that if he has something to say, he should say it. he learns that his words have worth. his love has worth. he learns to stop bottling up his emotions, because someday the pent up distress _will_ explode.

 

it isn't perfect. it may never be. that's okay.

 

baby steps.

 

jungwoo hasn't self harmed in almost a year and a half. he doesn't talk to his ex best friend anymore and the hole in his heart is healing. his nail beds clear up, though he still brings bandaids wherever he goes.

 

being alive is so much effort.

 

jungwoo opens the letter. he is first in the class.

 

four years ago he was an angry wreck of a person that wanted to die before age fifteen and was just living day to day for the hell of it. now, he's about to graduate valedictorian, going to his dream school for his dream major.

 

being alive is worth the effort.

 

 

 

**_forward._ **

 

 

 

 

the image of the school shrinks in jungwoo's rearview mirror. he isn't driving to the pharmacy. he is going to hang out with his friends to celebrate the end of senior year.

 

they're knocking down the school next year and rebuilding it.

 

it is twelfth grade. his organs have finally dried. jungwoo doesn't look back.

 

 

 

 

**_forward._ **

 

 

 

 

jungwoo accepts his diploma.

 

 

 

**_forward._ **

 

 

 

he stares into the mirror, and stares and stares.

 

yes. that’s jungwoo.

 

 

 

**_forward._ **

 

 

 

_save before cancelling? your work will be lost otherwise._

 

_pending--_

 

_pending--_

 

_pending--_

 

_saved._

 

jungwoo is moving on.

 

 

 

 

**_end._ **

 

**Author's Note:**

> if you're feeling depressed or suicidal, call a hotline, please. keep yourself safe. if you need to talk about something, im here to talk. love you !!!
> 
> im about to graduate high school so ive been doing....a lot of thinking of how i got where i am. yes, everything in this fic is based on my personal experiences. yiiikes amirite lmao,, this is very very very personal and probably all over the place like my other fic especially bc i havent read any of it over so sorry. about that. 
> 
> its crazy to think about where i started and where i ended up, but one thing that i can say for certain is that im glad to be alive today. those arent words that i really ever expected to say but !!! here we are boys. its an overused phrase but,,, things really do get better. hang in there!!
> 
> also i promise that lighter norenmin fic is coming soon!!!!
> 
> in the meantime, let me know what you thought of this <3
> 
>  
> 
> twitter: pixeljunnie  
> curiouscat: pixinoa  
> tellonym: diotima


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